different from the mediaeval kind:

Come ye carles of the south country,
Now shall we go our kin to see!
For the lambs are bleating in the south,
And the salmon swims towards Olfus mouth.
Girth and graithe and gather your gear!
And ho for the other Whitewater![34]

The introduction of the homely arts of bread-winning distinguishes the
romance of Scandinavia from the romance of Southern Europe, and here
Morris struck into a new field for poetry. Wherever we turn to note the
effects of Icelandic tradition, we find this presence of daily toil,
always associated with dignity, never apologized for. The connection
between Morris' art and Morris' socialism is not hard to explain.

No commentary can equal Morris' own poem, "To the Muse of the North," in
setting forth the charm that drew him to the literature of Iceland:

O Muse that swayest the sad Northern Song,
Thy right hand full of smiting and of wrong,
Thy left hand holding pity; and thy breast
Heaving with hope of that so certain rest:
Thou, with the grey eyes kind and unafraid,
The soft lips trembling not, though they have said
The doom of the World and those that dwell therein.
The lips that smile not though thy children win
The fated Love that draws the fated Death.
O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy breath,
Let some word reach my ears and touch my heart,
That, if it may be, I may have a part
In that great sorrow of thy children dead
That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head,
Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream,
And death the murmur of a restful stream,
But left no stain upon those souls of thine
Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine.
O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one,
Come thou; for sure I am enough alone
That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw,
And wrap me in the grief of long ago.

V.

IN THE LATTER DAYS.

ECHOES OF ICELAND IN LATER POETS.

After William Morris the northern strain that we have been listening for
in the English poets seems feeble and not worth noting. Nevertheless, it
must be remarked that in the harp of a thousand strings that wakes to
music under the bard's hands, there is a sweep which thrills to the
ancient traditions of the Northland. Now and then the poet reaches for
these strings, and gladdens us with some reminiscence of

old, unhappy, far-off thing